


Left Handed Kisses

by millstonetooth



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, M/M, Tattoos, stick and pokes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-18 02:47:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21753871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millstonetooth/pseuds/millstonetooth
Summary: This is why Peter buys boats. Impulsiveness dies at sea, as with all the other excess emotions and needs that Elias’s company dredges up.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas
Comments: 14
Kudos: 87





	1. For it begs the question

**Author's Note:**

> I'm working on this slowly, but I wanted at least some of it out there, so... have the beginnings of something.
> 
> Listen to the song the title and chapters are pulled from:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RZwtWExDmoI

Elias is crawling with tattoos. Ink snaking from the curve of his wrists all the way up his sleeve, over his shoulders, down his back. His upper body is covered in them, intricate lines of black ink swirling in pretty but shapeless patterns; random, mostly, but the ellipses of opened eyes find themselves naturally in the curling markings. Peter feels as if Elias’s entire body is watching him from the inked impression of eyes, open, staring, unblinking-- and distantly, Peter knows he’s right. 

He’s good at shutting the itching sensation of being seen out, though. The Lonely slides over him like a shroud, thin as gossamer, damp with fog; obscuring. He can’t hide from the Eye entirely, especially if Elias were to put any effort into Seeing him, but he can at least mitigate it. Peter Lukas, to Elias, is a closed book with an unlatched lock; to peer into him, Elias has to surmount some modicum of effort, has to actually  _ open _ it. Peter muses that it’s because of this, being “hard to get”, that has kept Elias’s interest in Peter alive over the years. That, and something deeper, more genuine, that burns like warm coals from a fire they’d tried, unsuccessfully, to stomp out.

Peter is familiar enough with Elias’s body to know his tattoos, even the more intimate ones--a rather complex inverted cross on his upper thigh, slightly uneven but cheeky and likely done by his own hand; the dagger along his hip and the cackling skull with a bottle of high end rum against his left hamstring, both professionally done; and then the winking smiley face on the cleft of his ass--acquired from a time before the Institute. The knotted, watching patterns all over Elias’s upper body stop just above his hips, leaving his legs untouched besides what had already been there, and the base of his throat, his neck and head smooth and free of ink. 

So the new eye, nestled on the protruding notch of Elias’s cervical vertebrae just above where the neck tapers into the back, stands out. Not just in its sudden existence, but its clarity. It’s distinct, defined, and although simple and iconic in style, it follows Peter as much as a real one would. An open, unblinking, lidless eye. Peter spots it peeking out from Elias’s collar, staring at him. Elias, always aware of anyone watching him, turns to glance over his shoulder and smiles.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of being watched by the Lonely?” Elias asks, leaning back. Peter frowns in thought, steps forward to close the gap between them, and place a large, calloused hand over the new tattoo on the back of Elias’s neck.

“This is new,” Peter says, prompting. It’s not enough to get a straight answer, and he knows that, but Elias’s response annoys him anyways.

“Which? The shirt? I’m honored you noticed,” Elias replies, flippant. Peter leans down, down, hovering over Elias with his sheer difference in size, something that would intimidate any sensible person but only serves to make Elias smile wider.

“No, Elias, the tattoo,” Peter’s tone is forcibly patient. Elias rolls his neck, into Peter’s touch.

“Ah yes, that,” Elias says. If Peter is hard to get, Elias is just as bad. They exist in a constant game of back and forth, push and pull, the kind of inaction and pussyfooting that shouldn’t get them anywhere but manages to anyways. “Charming, isn’t it?”

Peter is brimming with questions, which he knows Elias can practically taste, but to elicit any sort of worthwhile answer out of Elias, the question needs to be precise. Even then, it’s not guaranteed Elias would give Peter anything lucrative, but it’s at least more likely. Peter ruminates, tracing the simple black line of the upper lid as he thinks. Elias, happy to be at the center of attention regardless if it’s positive or not, waits.

“When did you get this new tattoo?” Peter settles on. It’s not a very good question, or at least not a very well worded one. He’d ask how, but he knows it concerns the Beholding, and that’s not something he’d ever receive a straight answer about. (It’s not quite his business, anyways.)

Elias is in a merciful mood. That, or he’s impatient, eager to witness a reaction. “A gift from the Beholding,” Elias says, and it’s annoyingly murky of a response, but it’s more substantial then Peter had been expecting. “It’s quite pleased with our little Archivist,”

Peter could ask what it means, but he knows that’s just as useless of a question as asking how Elias got the tattoo. Instead, Peter settles into more comfortable conversational territory, away from talk of the Eye. “Don’t you think you’re a touch too old for tattoos?” Peter asks. Below him, Elias snorts.

“Says the man who buys a boat every time he’s in danger of forming a connection with someone,” Elias shoots, and that’s  _ rude _ . Peter squeezes the back of Elias’s neck.

“Would you rather a sports car?”

“ _ You _ are too old for midlife crises,” Elias points out, waving the suggestion off. His hand reaches back to drag his fingers along the back of Peter’s wrist, trailing his fingers up to follow the line of Peter’s ulna. “But to get a tattoo at your age… Unexpected,”

“I’d only do it if you’d give me one,” Peter responds, automatic, and the silence descends upon them suddenly, suffocating, and immediate.  _ This _ is why Peter buys boats. Impulsiveness dies at sea, as with all the other excess emotions and needs that Elias’s company dredges up. 

Slowly, Elias turns his head, arches it back to meet Peter’s eyes. Elias doesn’t blink; a side effect of the Eye, something his little Archivist has to consciously remember to do, but Elias relishes in by how uncomfortable it makes people. Peter meets Elias’s gaze, even, strong. Steadfast in his impetuousness, no matter how embarrassing. 

“Who’s to say I won’t etch an eye into you?” Elias warns. Something in the tone of his voice irks Peter, makes him dig his heels in deeper.

“You’d be an idiot to try,” Peter says, a challenge, and Elias bites the hook with a flash of teeth.

“But you’d let me choose?” Elias asks, dragging his fingers back down Peter’s arm to find the exposed skin of his wrist and stroke it. 

“Don’t be tacky,” is all Peter provides. He’s made his bed, he might as well lay in it.


	2. Drifting gently through the gyre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elias works, and Peter recalls a mistake in France.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This just became an excuse to write silly little lonelyeye ficlets, so I'm going to continue with that. I'm too impatient, so have this now!!

“Do you need to sit in my lap for this?” Peter asks. He’s full of obvious questions he knows the answers to today. It’s not as if he can’t stew with them in guarded quiet, though. His personhood is defined by unfilled gaps of silence, but _Elias’s_ being is to occupy, to pin down Peter’s mystification and shape it into something solid. It’s annoying; Peter can hide from the Watcher but he isn’t unaffected. (That, and Elias is very adept at shaking Peter to his very foundations, able to cut through the fog walls Peter has carefully erected around himself. This has nothing to do with the Watcher, or the Lonely. For his own wellbeing, Peter pretends it does.)

“Of course not,” Elias says cheerily. Peter is drastically larger than Elias, providing him with ample room to lounge, spread over him like a particularly contented cat. Peter’s coat is folded neatly over another chair, his right sleeve rolled up to the elbow, arm draped over Elias’s spread thighs. Elias is scrubbing the length of Peter’s inner arm with a disinfectant wipe, and on a small stool next to him is a bottle of black tattoo ink and a handful of unopened sterilized needles packaged in plastic. Peter eyes them warily; he has no fear of needles, but he _is_ dubious of Elias’s proximity to them. It’s a sentiment that’s felt too late; he’s already agreed to let Elias stab him with the damned things.

“This will hurt, but not much,” Elias says as he fishes a needle and frees it from it’s wrapping. “You can still back out,”

Peter sniffs. “Pain is inconsequential,”

“Perhaps,” Elias muses derisively. “But I meant in general, love,”

Peter’s mouth twitches aggressively and he glowers. “Just get it over with, _Eli_ ,”

Elias tuts, tart, but doesn’t provoke Peter further. Peter may disdain pet names, but Elias _despises_ being called Eli. A shame, Peter rather likes it.

Elias falls into focused silence, and begins to prick ink into the meat of Peter’s inner arm. It doesn’t hurt, not quite, but it does pinch. It’s a persistent, faint, annoying pain, like a puppy teething his arm, or pricking himself on a cactus; continually, consistently. Easily ignored; instead, Peter watches Elias work, and thinks.

Elias, Peter considers with a touch of irony, is a sight for sore eyes. He’s a beautiful man, with striking features. High cheekbones, a straight, strong nose that hooks attractively, a smile that would be handsome were it not used so liberally, as maliciously, and with as many teeth. He has a full head of dark, thick hair, which elbows at Peter’s own thinning frock of wispy white. They aren’t _that_ different in age; Elias is, however, greying, and this is enough to mollify the smarting over Peter’s lack. At least Peter doesn’t _dye_ his. 

Elias is pretty, and Peter enjoys that. He doubts he’d be able to have put up with Elias as long as he has were Elias not _somehow_ digestible, and where his personality sorely lacks and grates, he makes up for in looks. His body is good, too. Peter keeps in shape for sailing, but he isn’t agile, and Elias is. Exquisitely so.

Peter inclines his head to one side, stealing a peek. Elias is working freehanded, however--impressive, though it’s likely supernatural aid which allows him such talents--and Peter can’t yet make sense of the lines being pressed and wiped, pressed and wiped. It’s meditative, though, and Peter leans back comfortably, satisfied enough with the companionable silence to close his eyes and drift.

◉

I.

“Elias,” Peter croaks, voice too soft, too far off, like it’s being spoken out of somebody else’s mouth and not his own. His memory of the past hour is a blurry, indecipherable mess. He’s been shot; this is irrefutable, it is an anchor, a reality to fix upon. The _why_ doesn’t matter anymore, neither does the _how_ \--he knows the _who_ , an oxymoron, a dangerous, spiraling contradiction that he typically possesses the wherewithal to leave well enough alone but didn’t, this time, because Elias asked so nicely and he can’t truly say no when Elias poses things just so--because right now Peter has a bullet in his gut and he’s bleeding out in the sewers snaking beneath coastal France.

His fingers feel weak, uselessly cupping his bleeding abdomen in a desperate attempt to stave the hemorrhaging; he’s unsure if he’s applying any pressure at all, much less what’s needed to prevent the bleeding. Elias’s own hands join atop his, cool and infinitely more solid, imposing harder, painfully. Peter hisses, but focuses on the chill of Elias’s skin, how it heats with his own fresh blood. “Elias,” he says again, more desperately.

“You’re fine,” Elias’s voice is rubber smooth, glossy. It is a shining, silver dagger that slices effortlessly through Peter’s cotton thick consciousness that ebbs and bobs like the Tundra in the open Lonely. “Talk, Peter, stay with me,”

“Trying to,” Peter says with difficulty. “Need you to listen. I’m-- Elias, just give up,” Peter sighs, head dropping back onto the cold, damp wall behind him. Elias mutters something, fast and venomous, but Peter ignores it and closes his eyes. “It’s fine. Just listen to me,”

“Keep your goddamn eyes open, Peter--”

“Elias, I’m not good at this,” Peter continues, unperturbed. A sardonic, weathered laugh bubbles in the back of his throat. “You-- you’re unlike anyone-- any _thing_ I’ve ever met before,”

“Peter, you aren’t going to die--”

“I think I hate you so much because you scare me. Funny, isn’t it? That an avatar can be scared of another avatar. Seems rather...redundant, truthfully--”

“Peter, talk about _anything_ else--”

“--But I understand now. I get it. It’s why I’m made for the Lonely, because true intimacy scares the living shit out of me--”

“--...You wouldn’t. Peter, don’t you _dare_ \--”

“--Elias, I think I love you--”

Elias slaps him, hard. A sharp, ruthless, open palmed strike connecting fully with Peter’s jaw and cheek, so sudden and intense that Peter is shocked back into the present. His abdomen seers white hot in agony. “Good _god_ ,” he chokes, lurching over, but Elias is grabbing him and violently righting him.

“Keep your goddamn sentiments to yourself, Peter Lukas,” Elias snarls. “You are not going to die. I won’t let you,”

“Self centered prick,” Peter gasps back. “Won’t all you want, there’s a bullet in my gut and all you can do is _see_ , not _do_ ,”

“Your lack of faith in me is quite impressive, Peter. Just as well, you can apologize to me later in the hospital,”

“God, why do I put up with you?” Peter mutters, head listing forward. Elias’s waiting hand catches him, smeared with Peter’s blood, and it’s sticky against the side of his face as Elias steadies him.

“Not entirely sure. Something about me being unlike anything you’d ever met before?”

“Remind me never to indulge you, it’s a fool’s errand,” Peter says, eyes sliding closed. Elias shakes him again, and he reopens them with a grunt. “Fuck you, let me sleep,”

“Absolutely not, you old bastard,” Elias says, oddly mild, but there’s affection coloring his tone. Below it lurks something warmer, more intense, and desperate, that he buries as deep as he possibly can. Peter wants to reach for it, coax it back to the surface, needs to hear Elias voice it too. _Tell me you love me too,_ Peter wants to say. _I want to hear it before I die_.

He doesn’t, though. Peter blacks out a moment later, Elias’s colorful, aggressive cursing tapering off like an effective lullaby.

-

Peter lives, of course. Barely, but he comes to eventually, hooked to monitors and swaddled in a hospital bed, his abdomen swathed tight, skin sewn back together, and gut blissfully free of bullets. Elias sits expectantly beside him, appearance somehow utterly unruffled, but his dark, weary gaze discloses the uneasiness he manages to coif back. He smiles, and Peter sees relief flood Elias’s face before its yanked back and snapped tightly shut behind his typical musing superiority.

Peter does apologize, then, and any other incriminating confessions are abandoned to die in the French sewers. They don’t talk about it.

◉

“Are you falling asleep on me, Peter?” Elias asks. Peter cracks an eye open to partially meet Elias’s imploring, smarmy gaze, before grunting and closing it. “Well then,” Elias murmurs. He adjusts his grip and continues his work.


End file.
